
Glass 



PXiyir 



Book_L 



AM ZFI. 



Goipght}J°_iliI 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




THE AUTHOR. 



A Falling Spark 



By Celwyn E. Hampton 

Author of "The Twenty First's Trophy of Niagara," "History 
of the Twenty-First Infantry, 1812 to 1863" 



1911 

The Edward T, Miller Company 
Columbu*. Ohio 



-ps -ariC 

- * 1 1 u 



Copyright 1911 

By Cdwyn E. Hampton 

May. 1911 



National Defense Press 

The Eaward T. Millet Co. 

Columbus, Ohio 



©CLA'^Sl)3iO 







^ 



-fi 







As out of poverty cometh the thief, 
So out of love cometh song. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Foreword 7 

Earthbound 11 

A Tale of Life 14 

Taps 17 

Retrospect 19 

The Army Mule 21 

If We Could Know 25 

Nicotine 26 

Life's Victor 28 

A Shadow of Dreams 32 

Homeward Bound 37 

In Sight of Port 39 

El Escondido 42 

Fuente 47 

In the Dark 52 

In the Last Moments of the Year 1876 55 

Tropic Days 62 

"Brer Rabbit" 63 

An Ode to Eros 64 

The Serpent God 67 

Confessional 70 

A Valentine 73 

"The Lady of the Sea" 75 

Envoi 78 

In Memory 79 

A Vision 85 

Genesis 86 



Who Liveth Alway 87 

The Reborn 90 

Recompense 93 

Prisoner of War 95 

Diri 97 

He Royale 99 

A Tao's Guitar 102 

Snow On the Mountains 103 

From Prison Walls 105 

The Soul of Our Samurai 108 

When My Lady Comes 110 

The Triumvirs 112 

Rose Leaves 114 

In Extremis 115 

My Lassie 117 

Sanctuary 119 

The Kneeling Nun 120 

A Persian Garden 122 

Retour 124 

Week's End 125 

The Rock-Crusher 127 

Queeries 132 

White Magic 134 

The Nightingale 135 

Old Lamps for New 137 

"When the Last of the Grain Lies Low" 139 



FOREWORD, 



The verses that follow have been written slowly, from 
time to time, as the music of each sang the burden of 
its thought into my mind, since I was about nineteen 
years of age. With my older view I look upon some of 
the earlier ones with not a little misgiving. They follow 
lines of thought that probably would draw me less 
strongly now — or, at least, I should entertain somewhat 
modified views, and certainly should express myself 
differently were I to set myself to write of them. 

As usually happens, I suppose, to most authors, I am 
in doubt whether some of these early attempts should 
be printed — whether it would not be wise to omit those 
that do not seem to me now to be wholly good. Most 
critics have held in the past, and probably would do so 
in the present case, that it is wisdom to disown the im- 
mature children of one's brain. But, as I contemplate 
such a course, or the more cruel one of their destruc- 
tion, three things appeal to me in their behalf. 

First: I have not written with any thought upon the 
critic, but only to satisfy myself. So it is not he, but 
myself, that must now make a decision. 

Second, I do not know that to be wise should be the 
ruling thought. Anyway, who knows what wisdom is? 

Third: There are ideas contained in these early 
verses, and there is music in some of them that may be 
worth saving. Perhaps the work of youth may be as 
wise, in its own way, as that of maturity. We grow old, 
and we look backward upon our own youth and down- 
ward upon the youth of those about us with an entirely 
different angle of sight; and sometimes we disapprove 
and condemn what we see. But we never grow young, 
so that we can look down upon and examine the work 
of our maturity and our age and judge it as it deserves. 



Take "RETROSPECT" as an example. Once I had 
almost sentenced it to the knife, and no doubt many 
will say that judgment was the correct one. Certainly 
I should not write it now. But that is rather because 
I could not, and may show only that I am more ignorant 
of the true life than when I wrote it. Some of its 
readers may recognize in it the record of a psychic 
phenomenon that 's not wholly uncommon to youth, 
but which most of us lose with the advance of years. 
I had almost said alas! but it may even be best that it 
should be lost, so that we may be the better fitted to 
cope with the antagonisms of the extremely physical 
world that surrounds us. Some wise physicist may 
even assure me that this phenomenon is a pathological 
one — a disease to be cured as soon as possible. I do 
not know. All I can say is, let the record stand. Let 
those dispute who will. 

I can not say that these verses stand in the exact 
order in which they were written, but they are nearly 
so. I have thought them of more interest so than they 
probably would be if their order were changed and 
they were grouped according to any other plan. As they 
are, good, bad and indifferent, they at least present 
something of a register. 

As for "FUENTE" and "DIRI," they are frankly 
travesties upon the work of others. They represent but 
a very common and inferior order of poetic art, and 
can claim no other merit than that of ingenuity. But 
they are made in a spirit of fun, and not one of ridicule, 
so, little good as they possess, let them also stand. 

Without entering into a commentary upon poetry in 
general, I will say that I believe the art is not a spon- 
taneous outbursts in any nation or in any race, but a 
growth in which each plant owes something of its life 
and nourishment to the fields that have been cultivated 
by older workers. It is not the gift of nation or of race, 
but the common treasure of the whole world, in so far 
as we are privileged to know the fruits of distant lands 
and ages past. Some of the best influences upon our 



modern singing are coming to us out of a past long 
buried in the plains of central and western Asia. Even 
China has begun to contribute of her store. Despite 
our hot prejudices and our great ignorance, we are 
much less ignorant than we used to be! 

So I acknowledge my debt to my predecessors of all 
times, and deny no plagiarisms. For the benefit of 
those most concerned in looking for such matters of 
complaint, I will say that the very name I have adopted 
for my volume is taken bodily and literally from a poet 
of an elder day and of far greater gifts than mine. By 
this candor I hope to lead these seekers after knowledge 
to discover for themselves his name and his works. If, 
then, they will but read his lines, they surely can not 
fail to find some of the delight that I have found in 
them; so there, at least, will be a good work I have done. 

Neither my Foreword nor my book would be com- 
plete without some expression of my gratitude for the 
friendship and the kindly encouragement of Doctor 
Edward S. Holden and the oflScers on duty at West Point, 
failing which I might have found myself unable to 
print the volume at this time. I hope for it some perma- 
nent success, as much to prove that their support has 
not been misplaced as for my own gratification. 

CELWYN E. HAMPTON, 
Captain, U. S. A., Ret. 

San Antonio, 

March 29th, 1911. 



EARTH-BOUND. 



Though dim to my memory are the words 
Of an old and forgotten tome, 

Their spirit still haunts me, day by day, 
Like the scenes of my ciiildhood home. 

The story comes, if I do not err, 
From out of the distant East ; 

'Twas told, perhaps, by a wise graybeard, 
To lighten a Sultan's feast. 

It is all of a stranger paradise, 
But surely there's nought of sin 

In a golden link of a world-round chain 
In which we are all bound kin. 



11 



Give ear to a tale of an Orient faith 

With faith of a world-wide view: 
The faith of the East and the faith of the West 

Are one in the fair and true. 

As Prophet and Preacher have ever told, 

Were a myriad angels there, 
Who never had lived this mortal life, 

With its sorrow and pain and care. 

But one of the holy sisterhood 

Grew weary and sad at heart; 
And, forth from the throng about the throne, 

She drew, to herself, apart. 

The Master of all, the Compassionate, 

Then called her at last to Him, 
In wonder that ever, in Paradise, 

The light of a soul should dim. 

With eyes averted she answered Him : 

"Lord, pardon my sin, I pray. 
For seeking ever the Evening Star 

While warmed by the orb of day. 



12 



I have heard my Earth-born sisters speak, 

When among themselves alone, 
Of a love whose memory is still their joy — 

But that I have never known. 

Of an Earthly love are all their words, 

In longing and gentle voice; 
And of all the themes of Heavenly tongues 

This seemeth, for aye, their choice. 

Now of Thy pity, dear Lord, I seek 

The gift of Thy grace to me; 
That I may dwell, for a time, on Earth, 

So there I may happy be. 

The cares of Earth shall be light to me ; 

For its dangers I have but scorn ; 
The loss of Heaven I do not fear. 

Nor the death of the Earthly born ; 

If I may know, to its utmost worth. 

The treasure all else above — 
The pride of man and a woman's crown, 

The bliss of an Earthly love." 

—West Point, N. Y. 

13 



A TALE OF LIFE. 



Let fall the curtain ; softly, speak low ; 
Come, look ; give a blessing first, ere you go. 
Here is a mystery, — know you how great? 
Rend us the veil of the future, O Fate ! 
Baby hands, light as the autumn leaves now, 
Charming the pain from the young mother's 

brow — 
Here is a life ; may we hope — we will dare 
Wish that it may, to the end, be as fair — 
Fair, and as bright as this midsummer morn — 
For the god of our household is born — is born. 



U 



Let the bells ring, we are happy today; 

Stand by my side and listen, I pray. 

To the rolling tones of the organ that fill 

The church, and once again all is still. 

Save their voices repeating the words divine — 

Ah God ! am I hearing the same old line 

I heard years ago, when I stood where they stand, 

With a heart the lightest in all the land? 

Well, he loves her, — my blessings upon her head — 

For our gallant young lover is wed — is wed. 



A blast from the bugle — and fire a salute 
From the guns of the fort ! No less honor will suit 
The glory of such a home-coming as this — 
Full surely, my cup is o'erflowing with bliss. 
The battle is ended, the struggle is done. 
A cheer for our troops, with their victories won, 
And a cheer for their leader, so noble and grand, 
The bravest of all that brave, patriot band. 
Hark ! the roaring of hoofbeat and rattle of 

drum — 
And our battle-scarred soldier is come — is come. 



15 



The bells are tolling now, solemn and sad. 

How can it be? Do I dream? Am I mad? 

His world's joys and sorrows forever are past, 

But over our hearts Death's shadow is cast. 

Here lies the mystery — greatest of all. 

I bow at the thought of it — tremble, and fall. 

Eternity, roll back thy curtain, we pray; 

What is the end of our poor, deformed play? 

Useless our calls, for the spirit has fled, 

And the pride of our household is dead — is dead. 

—West Point, N. Y 



16 



TAPS. 



The bugles of our Corps have blown, 

Full oft, the sad refrain 
That bears upon its silvery waves. 

The spirit home again. 

The lingering notes fall plaintively 

Upon the still night air, 
The messengers of peaceful rest 

And freedom from our care. 

Oh, welcome they to weary hearts, 
When blown at close of day, 

Like angels' blessings on our sleep — 
Sweet voices far away. 



11 



But lonelier, sweeter, sadder far, 

When, by the open grave 
Of some loved comrade they are heard- 

The requiem of the brave. 

And at the wierdly solemn sound, 

There steals the silent tear, 
From eyes of sturdy, sun-bronzed men, 

Whose hearts ne'er stooped to fear. 

Let none, beside his humble bier, 

A pompous anthem sing; 
For him the sound he loved to hear 

In proud defiance ring. 

From fiery fields, whence oft he strove 

Immortal fame to rob, 
It comes to mourn the soldier dead, 

Now like a spirit's sob. 

He heeds it not — this funeral strain; 

Life's battle fought and won. 
He wakes to music sweeter than 

The bugles sing at dawn. 

—West Point, N. Y. 
18 



RETROSPECT. 



In some vast, forgotten age, when we cannot 

know, 
Can it be that we have lived, in the long ago? 
In what chill or sunny clime, on what stranger 

shore? 
Of this life and all its ties fain would I know 

more. 

Oft when I most lonely am, cloistered with my 

thought, 
When my cup's with sorrow full, or with joy 

unbought 
By the jewelled sands of Inde, or by Ophir's gold, 
That the silken sails have set of the fleets of old : 



19 



Then there float before my eyes pictures pale and 

dimmed, 
As of olden memories, vague and lightly limned ; 
Or a face a moment seen 'mid the shifting throng, 
Raises mists from Shadow-land that have lain so 

long. 

There upon my quest I haste, while before me 

flies 
Still the wraith that leads me on — flees and fades 

and dies. 
So to me is ne'er revealed what's beyond the 

bourne; 
From my searching I must turn, failure still to 

mourn. 

Trembling, as from dreams I wake, from my 

questing flight, 
Sadness falls upon my heart, clouds before my 

sight ; 
Mystic messages have brought, like an elfin scene. 
Something past that yet I know ne'er on Eartli 

has been. 

—West Point, N. Y. 



20 



THE ARMY MULE. 



(Jimmy Green's Soliloquies Thereon.) 



We've most of us heard, from time to time, 
Some purty plain talk, not often in rhyme, 
Since we was youngsters goin' to school, 
'Bout that curious critter, the Army Mule. 
He's got a record, we all of us know. 
Don't any too bright with sanctity glow ; 
But don't you forgit that he's no fool — 
That festive, rollickin' Army Mule. 



21 



He's been lied about no end o' times, 

Charged with all sorts and conditions o' crimes, 

With bein' lazy and not likin' work — 

Why I never knowed one of 'em duty to shirk — 

With causin' drivers to rave and cuss, 

By kickin' things into a tangled muss ; 

By standin' stock-still and refusin' to pull, 

Stubborn as any conceited bull : 

S'posin' he does kick, now and again; 

He don't mean any harm ; and then, 

I can tell you you'd kick too, 

If some one'd lick you black and blue, 

Tryin' to make you faster go. 

When you're natcherly somethin' slow; 

And not allow you but little rest, 

And feed you mighty skimpy, at best. 

Mules knows, as well as you or me. 
Who's their real friends, don't you see? 
They wouldn't think o' hurtin' them. 
No more'n I would my Bunkie Clem. 
Talk about Grant and Sherman and all 
Savin' the nation a terrible fall — 
'Twa'n't them any more'n the faithful tool 
That served them so well — the Army Mule. 



22 



About the horses there's plenty to say, 
Like the wonderful charger that saved the day 
By carryin' Sheridan into the fray, 
From Winchester, twenty miles away. 
For the patient mule there's little praise — 
For any sort of 'em, blacks or grays — 
But, though they're slighted, all the same, 
They're the ones that deserves the fame. 

Draggin' cannons and wagons and vans, 
Livin' mostly on boxes and cans, 
Dyin' by thousands, surely they 
Ought to be pensioned with oats and hay. 
Some people says they don't like their voice, 
But then that's only a matter of choice; 
I think nobody never heard 
Better music from any bird. 

Tell you what set me a' thinkin' so 
'Bout that critter; a year ago 
I was drivin' a mule we called Old Jack; 
I treated him square and he paid it back. 
You know the place where we git the coal. 
The old North Dock, with its crazy roll — 
Well, I drove down there, one cold like day, 
A little tipsy, I'm sorry to say; 



23 



And, wabblin' round like a crook-necked gourd, 
I tripped and tumbled overboard; 
And I'd a' been drownded, sure as sin — 
When it came to swimmin' I wasn't in — 
But Jack reached over the side, some way, 
And grabbed my coat like a bunch o' hay. 
And held me there till some one come — 
True as I'm talkin', I swear, by gum ! 

So, when I'm retired. Jack will be, too; 

He's a friend in me that's good and true. 

I mean he shall stay with me, some way. 

And I'm savin' some money from each pay-day ; 

So here's "how !" Jack, with a rousin' cheer. 

I'm robbin' his oats for a bottle o' beer, 

But I always make it a positive rule 

To drink the health o' the Army Mule. 

—West Point, N. Y. 



U 



IF WE COULD KNOW. 



If we could know 

What fate life holds in store for us ; 

What scenes the turnings of our pathway hide ; 

What pains and sorrows, griefs or joys for us ; 

And what the ending of our hopes and fears 

That float like ships upon the vagrant tide ; 

Would all be worth our toils and cares, 

If we could know? 

If we could know 

Whether Ambition's crown shall be for us; 

Or if high hopes shall crumble, ruined, into dust; 

If Love's dear voice shall ever speak for us. 

Or, faltering, end in bitterness and tears ; 

Then, would we say the ordering of our lives was 

just? 
And would our final words be praise or jeers, 
If we could know? 

—West Point, N. Y. 

25 



NICOTINE. 



There's a fairy in the bowl 
Of my pipe — 

Nicotine ! 
She it is to whom I sing, 
She to whom my praises ring — 

Nicotine ! 
Of gentleness she is the soul; 
Peace and quiet is her role, 
Her magic wand, a glowing coal — 

Nicotine ! Nicotine ! 

They have often spoke you ill 
In my hearing — 

Nicotine! 
Say your face is dark as night; 
That good people you affright — 

Nicotine ! 
That you are from Satan's mill, 
That you start on Life's down-hill 
But, for all, I love you still — 

Nicotine ! Nicotine ! 



26 



After all, you are the best 
Of my friends — 

Nicotine! 
You have ever served me w^ell ; 
Of your goodness would I tell — 

Nicotine ! 
Through all things you've stood the test; 
Stood by me when all the rest 
Fled, or taunted me with jest — 

Nicotine ! Nicotine ! 

Ah ! 'tis good to have you nigh, 
In my smoke-clouds — 

Nicotine ! 
Here's your health in sparkling wine: 
I'll, for treasures, ne'er repine — 

Nicotine! 
While I sit and watch you fly. 
Hovering 'twixt me and the sky, 
Floating softly, dreamily, by — 

Nicotine ! Nicotine ! 

—West Point, N. T, 



21 



LIFE'S VICTOR. 



We were ordered to march at daybreak, 

The Captain said, at Retreat, that day; 
To march, by the earliest light of dawn. 

Toward the place where the hostile tribesmen 
lay. 
Our scouts had brought us rumors in plenty, 

How they came upon them under a bank, 
Hidden away in the wilds of the foot-hills; 

How their skulkers hung on our every flank. 

So, that night, to make safety more certain, 

Though rest was a blessing, and duty was hard. 
After the march o'er the dry, burning prairie, 

The order was given to double the guard. 
Out of the troopers, by Destiny chosen. 

To perform, for the night, this wearisome task, 
Was a brown-eyed fellow who lately had joined 
us, 

But no better soldier could any one ask. 



Out yonder, last on the chain of the sentries, 

Carefully pacing the marked-out track, 
Wary of eye and ear for surprises, 

For all were fearing a night attack: 
Up in the clear blue arch of the heavens, 

Soft and silver the pale moon's light — 
Sprinkled about on the robes of the darkness, 

The shimmering stars — the jewels of night. 

Wearily his step fell on cushions of grasses ; 

Not the sound of a voice nor the sight of a face ; 
Midnight had spread over all her firm fetters. 

Tired troopers lay, wrapped in Slumber's em- 
brace. 
Gazing afar into fathomless azure. 

The thoughts of the soldier strayed far away, 
Till little he thought of the work of tomorrow — 

Remembered little the cares of today. 

One year ago that night it all happened ; 

How, even he couldn't tell very clear. 
But he felt again a soft hand's pressure. 

And heard again a voice so dear. 
That was before he had joined the troop. 

One year ago, in his eastern home, 
Before he had come to follow the flag. 

He and she found themselves alone : 



Walking beneath the whispering trees, 

The same pale moon and stars o'er-head; 
Love made heaven in those two hearts, 

Love made music of all they said. 
In low, sweet tones she sang to him, 

No sounding epic of kingly pride, 
But only a sweet and simple lay. 

Whose golden worth has long been tried. 

An olden tale of olden love, 

Whose joys and sorrows few shall miss; 
A lover's pleading and his trust; 

For men believe the lips they kiss. 
The song was ended; at its close 

Their hearts sang on to music low ; 
Her bosom heaved like ocean tide. 

In strong and fitful ebb and flow. 

Why further tell the story o'er? 

The lovers stood, clasped heart to heart. 
And only breathed unworded vows 

Of constancy that death should part. 
Again he felt that soft hand's pressure, 

Again he heard the voice so dear. 
That sang, beneath the evening sky, 

So far removed from any fear. 



30 



A cry of warning pierced the air; 

A cry, alas! 'twas that of death; 
Struck by a gliding warrior's knife, 

The summons came with failing breath. 
The camp, so strangely startled, woke. 

And soon was plunged in random fight; 
But 'twas not long ere, driven back. 

We watched them o'er the plain in flight. 

"A soldier killed on sentry post." 

That is the poor lad's only fame. 
The journals said, "A night attack." 

And barely gave a hero's name. 
The news brought sorrow to one heart 

That mourned for him as truly great ; 
Unnoted 'twas amid the throng — 

So oft the soldier's common fate. 

Could there have been a martial court, 

Dire punishment for him were mete; 
The reparation that he owes 

Is rendered at God's mercy-seat. 
Now, what shall, there, his sentence be. 

If soldier's duties are account? 
Shall he be held a culprit still. 

Or is love, there, the paramount? 

—West Point, N. Y. 

SI 



A SHADOW OF DREAMS. 



White lay the plain in the noonday glare, 
One bright day in the middle June; 

Its flickering heat and the scorching air 
Telling their stories to us too soon. 

Our troop wound slowly along the road 

That climbed away toward the mountain crest, 

Up from the gorge where the river flowed, 
And over the crown of old Crow Nest. 

Slowly we rode up the mountain steeps. 
By hidden paths and by old byways; 

By nature's towers and donjon-keeps 

Whose pennons glowed in the sunlight rays. 



32 



Our scouts rode wide on either hand, 

And we watched and listened with nerves 
strung taut; 

Somewhere, we knew we must make a stand, 
But still the skirmish remained unfought. 

Each had loosened the trusty blade 

That hung by his side in its scabbard bright. 

Each had the chances of battle weighed, 

And, hands on our pistols, we waited the fight. 

The dead leaves lay, like a carpet brown, 

Its figures changing, elfin like, 
Shifting slowly up and down. 

Splotched with shadow or flecked with light. 

And there, on the earth, 'neath my horse's feet, 
Lay a bed of blossoms that, starlike, shone. 

While the breezes, full of their odor sweet. 
Seemed wafting a song in a clear, low tone. 

I thought of the meanings for which they stand — 
The blood-red rose, with its message of love, 

The laurel, worshipped on sea and land — 
Happy the brow that it rests above. 



SS 



I looked on the laurel, so coldly white, 

With its pale red veins, like streaks of blood; 

And I seemed to stand midst the raging fight 
Whose clamor swelled like a rising flood. 

And I saw again, when, the battle past, 
I proudly wore the crown of fame ; 

Mine was the victor's triumph, at last ; 
For me was a nation's glad acclaim. 

I thought of love as a thing apart. 
Cast aside like the worthless sherds ; 

What did it matter — the broken heart? 

And I sang, to myself, the warning words: 

"White hands cling to the tightened rein, 
Slipping the spur from the booted heel; 

Tenderest voices cry, 'turn again,' 

Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel." 

But full in my eyes the roses glowed. 
And something seemed lost from out my life; 

Again to my heart the warm blood flowed, 
And laurel and rose joined in deadly strife. 



34 



A sweet, low voice was in my ear, 

My love's soft lips on my own were pressed ; 
And, of all the things I held most dear, 

In all the world, my love was best. 

I felt her heart throb 'gainst my own. 

As her clinging arms round my neck were cast. 

What, now, to me was the victor's throne? 
Love was victor of life at last. 

''Halt!" What is that? A signal shot- 
Again and again, like pattering hail. 

''Dismount ! Deploy !" and the fight grows hot ; 
But our pistols are ringing, our foemen quail. 

They halted, and so we had won the fight: 
It wasn't by much, but it saved the day. 

We charged, and at last they were put to flight. 
And we shouted our joy, as a victor may. 



'Twas a practice battle, but such is life. 

Our wills are weak and our paths seem dark; 
Twixt us and our fate there is constant strife. 

While we struggle on toward the hidden mark. 



35 



And when I lie in the narrow bed, 
Under the blossoms, for so I must; 

And the sorrowfully solemn words are said- 
"Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust." 

For the life that goes on, for ever and aye, 
While memory lasts, or the river flows. 

Shall my portion be, to beside me lay. 
As my symbol of life, the laurel or rose? 

—West Point, N. T. 



S6 



HOMEWARD BOUND. 



My bark hath sped o'er many paths 

That thread the billowy way, 
Her guide, one faithful star by night. 

The burning sun by day. 
Her white wings softly rise and fall 

Upon the fragrant air. 
Unharmed alike by Arctic storms. 

Or by the Tropic's glare. 

My bark hath borne me far and oft, 

A rover swift is she, 
To wind-swept isle, or faint mirage, 

And now comes home to thee. 



57 



The lights nod on the harbor-bar, 

That I, afar, may see 
My way unto the loved home port, 

As I come back to thee. 
My heart hath long a rover been. 

Like one upon the sea; 
Its guiding star eternal hope. 

The love that is to be. 
Foul winds and fair blow not in vain, 

The weary days are past. 
And in the days that are to come, 

Is perfect peace, at last. 

The lights nod on the harbor-bar. 
The south wind woos the sea, 

That answers to its soft caress — 
Wilt thou not answer me? 



—West Point, N. 7. 



38 



IN SIGHT OF PORT. 



Sing of the waves on the seashore — 

Voices of thunderous tone; 
Sing of the winds in the forest — 

Words that are lost in a moan. 
Nymphs at their play in the woodland, 

Tritons that sport with the flood, 
Welcome me, all, as a brother — 

Joy, only, leaps in my blood. 
Sing of the broad, green meadows. 

Sprinkled with flowers in bloom; 
Waking, flooded with sunlight. 

Sleeping, in twilight and gloom. 
Odors of grasses and flowers. 

Delicate, sweet as a dream ; 
Songs of the birds in the tree-tops, 

That answer the murmuring stream. 
Sweetness of life everlasting — 

I envy not angels above. 
Living of life is but beauty. 

For within and around me is love. 



S9 



Love, that to me is forbidden ; 

God ! is this, then, my fate ? 
Never to drink of love's fullness, 

Be love's anguish ever so great? 
Life's sweetness changed all to sorrow, 

Naught is there now but my pain : 
Life's road is turned from the brightness 

Back to the shadow again. 
What long past sin unforgiven 

Brings still this torture to me? 
Oh, God above us in power, 

Is this then, thy mercy's decree? 
Still, in the midst of the blackness. 

The dear old days come yet, 
With their memories, sweetest, saddest — 

Ah, could we but forget! 



Then sing the song of war-drums. 
With their thunders, long and loud. 

Vivid flashes of lightning, 
Shafts of the battle-cloud. 

Never of peace again, 

Peace, and of love's delight; 

Sing now of War's array — 



War, and his eagle's flight. 

Sing of the roll of drums, 
Of the bugle's stirring call. 

Sing of the thundering charge. 
Of the glittering sabre's fall. 

War-flags that flaunt the breeze, 
Guidons that flutter and nod. 

Duty we owe to the strong sword- 
All of the rest to God. 



Yet is all this forbidden — 

Love not so easy dies. 
Love only needs to beckon, 

And colder Reason flies. 
Heart's Love slain in loving — 

Sweet memories, sadder yet. 
Where they might but be happy- 

Oh, could we but forget! 



—Colum'bus, 1896. 



4t 



EL ESCONDIDO. 



Land of the tropic sunlight, 
Through all thy borders wide, 

There runs a fiery sword-trail, 
Thy crimsoned streams beside. 

Thy golden age of glory 

Speaks to us yet, afar. 
With cruel words that ever 

Thy sweetest songs shall mar. 

Thy grand old Aztec story 
Were an epic without stain, 

Heard we not, in its wild music, 
The groan of a minor strain. 

In tale of war or love-song, 
A shriek, in the music clear, 

From the victim on thy altars, 
Falls harshly on the ear. 



42 



And when, in Europe's conquest, 
With its tale of lust and blood. 

When the older nation perished 
Beneath the Spanish flood ; 

When men gave place to demons, 

And freemen to the slave; 
Small wonder if thy children 

Should yet for vengeance crave. 

With all thy firesides rifled, 

Thy temples wrapped in flame — 

Thy victor's love was torture. 
His glory was his shame. 

Sad birthright of a nation 

Whose blood commingled flows, 

Whose heritage of cruelty 
In word and deed yet shows. 

I stand upon thy border. 

And look on the barren plain 

That stretches away to North and South, 
And I long for my home again. 



4S 



The North, with its cold and bluster — 
But its people are women and men 

Whose joys reek not of torture 
Till the heavens cry again. 

Whose pleasure is not in watching 

The gasps of a dying bull, 
Whose plaudits are never given. 

At the sight of a bloody pool. 

Bare and gray is the landscape. 
Though the sky above be bright; 

And cold is my heart within me. 
Though it long again for light. 

The light and the life of a loving friend^ 
That is dearer than all to me ; 

The life and the light of a living love, 
In which my life shall be. 

Shall I not, then, be answered, 

Nor that I ask be mine? 
The day give me but its furnace heat, 

And the night, for me, be blind? 



kk 



But I know the wild land's beauty, 
In the gray of its winter scene ; 

In the Rio Grande's yellow flood ; 
In the peasant's hut so mean ; 

In the Escondido's waters, 

With their fringe of rustling reed. 

And the hillside grove of live-oak, 
Where oft my dreamings lead. 

Nay, then, found I not my answer, 
And the richest gem of life. 

By the Hidden River's waters. 
Making peace with all my strife? 

So I bless thee, Hidden Water, 
For the lesson thou hast taught; 

So I thank thee, Escondido, 

For the calm thy voice hath wrought. 

Bless thee, yet, for all thy teaching. 
As of old the warning ran: — 

''Judge thou not of man too quickly. 
Lest thou, too, be judged by man." 



45 



What know I of other's goodness, 
Sterling worth of heart and mind? 

They, like thee, may be but hidden, 
While I, yet, am all but blind. 



—Eagle Pass, 1897. 



46 



FUENTE. 
(A Mockery of Kipling.) 

There's a brown-faced girl at Fuente 

That I think of now and then, 
An' I wish that I was servin' 

Down at Eagle Pass again ; 
For the wind is in the mesquit, 

An' the burro-bells they say, 
"Come you back, you Gringo soldier, 

Come you back to Fuente." 

"Come you back to Fuente, 

'Mongst the cactus an' maguey; 
An' the sweet huisache blossoms 

Twixt Diaz and Fuente?" 
O, the road to Fuente, 

Where the pela'o children play; 
An' the burro-bells go tinklin' 

Down the river, every day. 



47 



Her camison was yeller, 

Her reboso it was green, 
An' her name was Serapia — 

Purtiest girl I ever seen. 
An' I saw her first, a puffin' 

At a corn-husk cigaroot, 
An' a wastin' of her kisses 

On a dirty idol's foot. 
Couldn't blame her when I thought 

'Twas the way that she'd been taught 
That she had to make her worship 

To the saints that she had bought, 

On the road to Fuente, 

'Mongst the cactus an' maguey — 
An' I wish that I was ridin' 

From Diaz to Fuente. 
O, the road to Fuente, 

Where the pela'o children play, 
An' the burro-bells go tinklin' 

Down the river, every day. 

When the sun, a' slowly sinkin', 

Made the sky a purple sea. 
Her an' me would sing together, 

"Ya yo pienso en ti." 



48 



With her arm around my shoulder, 

An' her cheek agin' my cheek, 
We would watch the old carretas, 

With their ox-teams, slow an' meek — 
Six-line teams o' long-horn oxen, 

Pokin' 'long the slushy creek; 
You could hear 'em clean to Diaz, 

With their everlastin' squeak, 

On the road to Fuente, 

'Mongst the cactus an' maguey — 
An' I wish that I was ridin' 

From Diaz to Fuente. 
O, the road to Fuente, 

Where the pela'o children play; 
An' the burro-bells go tinklin' 

Down the river every day. 

Well, that's all been shoved behind me — 

Long ago an' far away — 
There's no carruajes runnin' 

From St. Paul to Fuente. 
But Fm learnin', here in Snelling, 

What the old-time soldier tells: — 
"If you've drunk the Bravo's waters, 

W'y you can't mind nothin' else." 



^ 



No, you can't mind nothin' else 
But them chile pepper smells, 

An' the mescal, an' tequila, 
An' the tinkly burro-bells. 

On the road to Fuente, 

'Mongst the cactus an' maguey — 
An' I wish that I was ridin' 

From Diaz to Fuente. 
O, the road to Fuente, 

Where the pela'o children play; 
An' the burro-bells go tinklin' 

Down the river every day. 

I am wearin' out my shoe-soles 

On these thunderin' icy stones. 
An' this cussed winter weather 

Freezes up my very bones. 
I can chase these biscuit-slingers 

At a rate that beats the band, 
An' talk all the time 'bout lovin'. 

But they never understand; 
Wooden mug an' beefy hand — 

Lord, these Swedes don't understand ! 
Give me back my Serapia — 

I'll go back to Greaser-land, 



50 



On the road to Fuente, 

'Mongst the cactus an' maguey — 
An' I wish that I was ridin' 

From Diaz to Fuente. 
O, the road to Fuente, 

Where the pela'o children play; 
An' the burro-bells go tinklin' 

Down the river every day. 

Ship me somewheres west o' Austin, 

Where the beer is of the worst — 
Where you can't get no Budweiser, 

But you've always got a thirst: 
For the Rio Grande's callin', 

An' I've got a home-sick pain 
For to see the old Garita, 

Down at Eagle Pass again. 

On the road to Fuente, 

'Mongst the cactus an' maguey — 
Where I spent my passes mostly 

On the road to Fuente. 
O, the road to Fuente, 

Where the pela'o children play; 
An' the burro-bells go tinklin' 

Down the river every day. 
■Eagle Pass, 1897. 



51 



IN THE DARK. 



The light is fair upon the Sulu Sea, 

Whose heaving waters bathe the farther shore — 
The mystic land, that mystic yet shall be. 

Though stand we long and clamor at its door. 
The lord of day comes slowly to his path 

O'er Tumantangis' cloud-swept, woody crest, 
With fiery eye again proclaims his wrath, 

And wakes the weary world again from rest. 
The steaming jungle, crammed with tropic life, 

The green isles, beaten by the restless tide, 
The Moslem warrior, armed for savage strife — 

Are these enough to fill our vision wide? 

Ah no ! my love, without love life is nought — 
A vain awaking and a restless sleep. 

Peace there is none but that too dearly bought — 
My heart calls to thee from a rayless deep. 



52 



The darkening waters quench the western fire, 

The Moslem turns, a prayer upon his lips, 
Unto the Mecca of his souFs desire — 

Above the walls the streaming standard dips. 
The myriad stars that people heaven's dome 

Are mirrored forth upon the placid sea ; 
The shoreward beacons now are calling home 

The wearied sailor — but none burns for me. 
The booming thunder of the Moro drums, 

Compelling silence in its awesome tone, 
In plain or mountain, wheresoe'er he comes. 

Calls, from the darkness, to the Prophet's own. 
The calm, cold splendor of the moon's pale light, 

The gentle radiance that shall crown the brave. 
Sheds, tended}/, upon the bier of night, 

A hallowed glory round the Cherif s grave. 

But ah ! dear love, without thee, lone I stand. 
And, standing sad and lonely, woe is me. 

Watching the parting of my rope of sand. 
The while my heart calls vainly unto thee. 

Sought I not, once, in sorrow and in pain. 
The greater prize, the laurel or my love? 
And have I need to ask my heart again. 



SS 



Within my chaplet, which shall rest above? 
Two cosmic songs there are, and none but these, 

Are truly worthy of the singer's skill, 
With which, in turn, the waiting world to please — 

Love and her life, or grim War's savage thrill. 
Both have I clearly heard, for I have stood 

In clamorous battle at its highest flood. 
And, spite of horrors, yet have found it good — 

Man's greatest game, whose stakes are lives 
and blood. 
Empires hang balanced by a silken thread — 

The world comes cringing at the victor's call. 
A living hero for the hero dead — 

The rising sun but hides the planet's fall. 

But ah ! the goddess Love claims all her own. 

For darkest night, which seemeth ne'er to flee. 
For all long vanished days, what can atone? 

My heart calls vainly unto thee. 

—Jol6, 1899. 



H 



IN THE LAST MOMENTS OF THE YEAR 
1876. 



To My Wife. 

(Translated from the Spanish of C. Peiiaranda.) 

Hark thou ! When next the hammer stroke 

Shall fall upon yon clanging bell, 

The story of the passing year 

Will be a finished chapter in 

The book of our two blended lives. 

A murmur, in the ear confused, 

Seems voiceless sobs that, for the year, 

Strive to intone funereal chants. 



55 



So let us, then, my own dear one, 
Close all the doors and fly away 
Unto the world of happy dreams. 
How sweet the thronging memories 
Of joys that through our days have run, 
As, one by one, they join the stream 
That keeps our hearts' oasis fresh 
And fruitful of our present bliss. 

How sweetly sleeps our little child — 
The tender hostage of our love — 
Soothed by the touches of her dreams. 
A presage lies upon her face 
Of many coming happy years ; 
For kisses tremble on her lips, 
And o'er her eyes Aurora's hand 
But draws the curtain of the dawn. 

Then, let us settle all accounts 
With that remorseless keeper, Time ; 
And may the pages of our ledger show 
We owe no debt save that of gratitude: 
So, haply, we may never fall 
In error, like those thoughtless ones 
Who wish naught but forgetfulness 
Of all the days God loaned to them. 



56 



Within the covers of the tome 

In which the annals of the year 

Are writ in words of virgin gold, 

The leaves that bear our storied life 

Are like the petals of a rose 

Whose heart, to him that seeks it out, 

Breathes wondrous, magic sweet perfumes 

That thrall and bind his every sense. 

Thou lovest me truly, dear, I know, 
With love unquenchable and sure ; 
And I adore thee as the star 
That ever leads my fondest hopes. 
So may our love forever be 
Firm as the fixed, immobile rock ; 
At peace, as is the quiet stream. 
Or sky unflecked by storm or cloud. 

Fear not the transports of our joy 
May, in the sight of heaven, offend; 
The pathway that our feet shall tread 
Is flower-strewn by angels' hands 
And, in the twilight of the dawn, 
I hear, confused in sleep, the sound 
Of kisses and of laughter low, 
l^ike rustlings of an angel's wings. 



57 



Our hearth shall be an altar-stone, 
Where no impious foot may dare 
To desecrate, with ruthless tread, 
The temple's quiet sanctity; 
The holy incense of our love 
Shall ne'er before it cease to burn; 
And so the current of our life 
Shall ever, calmly, onward run. 

Not as the rushing torrent flows. 
That drains of life its parent fields; 
Nor as the flaming lightning flash. 
That blinds the eye and then is lost; 
But as the never failing spring. 
Whose flow is crystal, fresh and pure; 
Or as the moonlight's shuttling beams, 
That weave a love-song in their threads. 

So shall the New Year prove to be 
A blessed fountain, from whose depths 
Shall come, to brighten every day. 
Full happiness, content and peace. 
But, if thy tender heart should be 
Torn by the horror of a doubt. 
Close not thine ears against me, dear; 
Be there no doubt betwixt us two. 



58 



When once, within two human hearts, 
There burn the sacred fires of love, 
There falls no winter's snow so cold 
To deaden and extinguish them ; 
And, even under Death's cold hand. 
They smolder, but they do not die. 
And, in another life, revive 
To feed upon its breath again. 

A careless venturer, once I sailed 
The trackless waters of the world; 
On all their shores no port was there, 
Whose blest protection I could claim, 
Until I saw, within thine eyes. 
The light that shone upon my path 
Unto the harbor of thine arms — 
Unto the safety of thy heart. 

Then fear not, thou, that he who once 
The perils of that sea hath known 
And fought against a thousand times. 
May ever leave the sheltering port 
That guards him from all storm and stress, 
To venture on its waters dark. 
To battle with its vagrant winds 
And buffet with its waves again. 



59 



Should adverse fortune come to vex 
The peaceful current of our life, 
We'd count it no disgrace to bear; 
For truly great and noble hearts 
Are noblest in an evil time. 
Although I was not born a king, 
Yet 'tis in Fortune's pov^er still, 
To 2;rant to us a better crown. 



to' 



If ever, in the future life, 

God shall, by any chance, decree 

That recollections of the past 

Shall wither, and shall be no more; 

If, then, my soul be cold and dark. 

Without the light and fire of love, 

Or turn to be indifferent — 

But no! He cannot will it so: 
'Tis He who, for me, hath ordained 
That all my future life shall be 
A cherished memory of the past, 
And that thy blessed presence shall 
Remain the only form in which 
May ever come complete content 
Though I might dwell in paradise. 



60 



So ever let it be ! and now, 
Thou constant angel of my dreams, 
As these last moments pass away, 
We too may say, with happy hearts, 
And faces clear of all deceit. 
We have not lost the gem of life. 
For, knowing that we once have loved, 
W^e know that we have truly lived. 

December, now, with leaden foot, 

Is making his last, faltering steps ; 

And, in the gathering frost and snow, 

He passes, quietly and sad ; 

A New Year, with its smiling face, 

Comes eagerly and swiftly on : 

God grant it be as kind to us 

As that which now is past and gone. 

— Jolo, 1899. 



61 



TROPIC DAYS. 



Ho ! for the days within the woody deeps 
Where fiery noon with midnight blends ; 

When Nature's law was all that ruled 
Amid the circle of my jungle friends. 

^oM, 1900. 



€2 



'BRER RABBIT.' 



Since good old Noah saved the beasts, 
With those scapegraces, Shem and Ham, 

Brer Rabbit's wisdom is renowned 
From Africa to old Japan. 

Told, 1900. 



6S 



AN ODE TO EROS. 



As, in the stillness of a summer day, 

With scarce, to eye or ear, a warning sign. 

The dewy blessings of the heavens fall 

Upon the warm and welcoming, grateful Earth, 

That takes the tribute to her gentle breast 

And sighs, responsive to the wooing touch 

Of sun and shade, of warmth and wind and rain, 

While all her charms and attributes unfold. 

In calm and peaceful quiet, as they grow 

From bud to flower and to perfect fruit; 

So Love may come. 

The trickling rivulet, dammed at its source 
Among the rugged hills where nature rules, 
By foolish ones who only care to dwell 
At perfect ease within its sunny dale. 
Fed, soothed and lulled to careless rest 



64 



By too great trusting in the curb they set, 
May, one day, burst its wonted bounds 
And carry death before its mad career; 
In flood sweep garden, grove and field, 
The humble cottage and the lordly hall, 
And leave, upon its path, but scattered wreck 
Of what, in other days, had been so sure; 
And so comes Love. 

The flame that, kindled by unwitting hands. 
Within the hollow of some sturdy oak, 
For but a moment's light, a transient joy, 
May linger, smoldering there, when all seems 

dark. 
And tear, with baleful red, insistent fang, 
Through sturdy sinews and through iron nerves. 
Sucking the heart's blood of the forest king, 
Till but a frail and quaking shell be left, 
A seared and rended trunk, that scarce can bear 
The weight of age and trials still to come. 
So, vainly struggling to withstand the blasts 
That daily rage about his lofty crown, 
Defying, still, the tooth that gnaws his breast, 
He sways before a breeze, the last bonds snap, 
And, with a crash, he bows his head in death ; 
And so comes Love. 



65 



Love comes unbidden and in many a guise; 
Remains, to be a blessing or a blight; 
Departs not, at our summons, nor returns; 
Uplifts, degrades — but we his shafts retain; 
With some is steadfast, and from others flies, 
On truant wings, from out their clutching hands ; 
Now constancy brings life, and now brings death. 
So, Love, unbidden come, go thou, or stay; 
Thy will we serve. 

— San Antonio, 1902. 



66 



THE SERPENT GOD. 



Scorn thou not me, 

Who comes beseeching but a kindly glance 

From eyes that power have to slay, 

Or, smiling, to give peace and life 

To such as, living ever, only live. 

In truth, if there be not v^itheld 

The light for which God's creatures yearn, 

That wakes to life within the heart 

The joy of living, and that bids be glad. 

Yet, in the very dawn of life. 

Ere man had come to walk, in pride, the earth, 

Even before the birth of day. 

When all the world has frighted still 

By awesome mists that wrapped it round, 

And lifted only for the sun to smite, 

I was. 



67 



I knew not fear. I was the first and best 
Of every living thing. Ay, I was king! 
And power was mine when came the apish man, 
Whom I befriended in his weakling state; 
And knowledge, for I led him to the light, 
Showed him wherewith to quench his thirst. 
On what to feed, and brought the heavenly fire; 
For Mother Nature gave me subtle wit 
That Art can never take away. 
And none there was denied my rule. 

So led I man that, in the olden time, 
He blessed me as his wisest guide. 
Giver of all his greatest gifts. 
Image of godlike beauty and of grace. 
Even creator of the goodly world ; 
But feared me still, for I could strike, 
Could shatter limbs, could sear the eye. 
Could curse with palsy or, with sudden blow, 
Could snatch away the very gift of life. 

Is it not so? Hast thou not read 

The sculptured story of the West? 

Is it not writ on living pages of the East 

And in the Sagas of the wind-swept North, 

How Sun and Fire and I have seen 



68 



Mankind bow down and tremble at our throne? 

But, with his newly gathered skill, 

Grew vanity and pride. He strove to break 

The spell that seemed to him a bond 

That galled him and proclaimed him slave. 

'Tis well ! I've rendered blow for blow. 
For every curse pronounced upon my head 
I've crushed and blasted many a hope. 
For bloodshed I have taken pay of blood, 
Till once again, by fear, I reigned. 
A truce to hate! Do I not live as thou? 
Is there not beauty in my sinuous form? 
An eye that rivals all the precious gems? 
A coat that holds, in its mysterious weave, 
The colors of the earth and sun and sky? 

These are my gifts to all I serve; 

To every beauty's line I match my own. 

If thou but look and speak me fair, 

No truer servant canst thou have. 

If thou admit within thy heart my shrine, 

I'll humbly lay my own beneath thy feet 

To do thee service while thy love I claim. 



^-Fort Snelling, 1903. 



69 



CONFESSIONAL. 



You ask my beliefs and religion, 
But why should you care to know? 

You think not much of the question, 
Who swear that 'tis thus and 'tis so. 

Of such I know but a little, 

And nothing of faiths or of creeds. 

But own to some thorough convictions 
About my desires and my needs. 

You'd ring me about with your fences. 
You'd guide me with bit and with barb 

"The spirit of man must be conquered," 
You mock, in your priest-given garb. 



10 



Of this I must limit my knowledge, 
My knowing must all be of that ; 
My friends must all perch in high niches, 
I never must stoop to the mat. 

I*m sick of all of your preachments, 
I'm tired of your meets and your bounds 

If I may not run with the foxes, 
I will not run with the hounds. 

I want just a little of freedom — 
The freedom of hand and of thought — 

For the fruits of life that are given. 
And not for the fruits that are bought. 

If the soul of another inspire me 
In the molding of word or of deed. 

Must I halt, on the threshold of purpose, 
To question the source of my need? 

If ever, by force of my being. 

The world may be brightened by song, 
Must the singer give pause to consider 

If the motive be right or be wrong? 



71 



There's no work that ever is wasted. 
There's no word that ever is lost; 

For it reaches the heart of another, 
No matter how far it be tossed. 

And I am but serving my purpose 
If I work or I cause to be wrought ; 

Shall I shrink from my duty of seeking, 
Or hide me when I shall be sought? 

So prate me no more of your preachments — 
I'm tired of your meets and your bounds : 

If to run with the foxes will damn me, 
I'll be damned if I run with the hounds. 

-Fort Snelling, 1903. 



IB 



A VALENTINE. 



Within your dark eyes depths there lurked, 

Too oft, a bitter sneer. 
In those old days when first I knew 

And learned to love you, dear. 
The voice whose beauty touched my heart 

Spoke, too, with cruel chill, 
But Love's breath fanned the temple flame 

And kept it burning still. 
You ask, now, what you can but know — 

**Why did I prize you, 

Why not despise you?" — 
Sweetheart, I loved you so. 



7^ 



When, now, the days are fair and sweet, 

And love is all in all. 
Can you turn back upon the road. 

Or I forsake its call? 
The future holds the hope of time, 

The past, the waste of years ; 
We look into the face of Joy 

Where are no dread and fears. 
So speak — I hear you whisper low — 

"By heaven above you, 

God knows I love you" — 
Sweetheart, I love you so. 

—Fort Snelling, 190S. 



74 



'THE LADY OF THE SEA." 



Who comes from out of the East at dawn, 

With a glory round her head, 
When the shrinking spectre of Night has gone, 

And the chilling mists have fled? 

With the sparkling drops on her wind-blown hair, 

A spray-crowned queen is she, 
As she comes to meet me, my lady fair — 

My Lady from the Sea. 

Bright are the visions upon her face, 

That mirrors her ocean home, 
Of the dancing waves, in their endless race. 

Sun-kissed, with their crests of foam. 



75 



The voice of the surges fills the air, 
As they run and they leap and break ; 

And the babbling ripples a message bear, 
As they follow the surges wake. 

A message to me as I wake at morn. 

From out of my tortured sleep; 
A message to me that love is born 

Afar in the sounding deep. 

Yet often my heart is torn with pain 
That is bitter, and still seems sweet, 

Though I cannot but gaze in her eyes again. 
Till I bow my head at her feet. 

For the sea is maddened with storm and strife. 
And the shrieking winds hold sway; 

For the Tempest God has waked to life, 
And has blotted out the day. 

It is black above and is black below. 

Where the reeling billows roar. 
And the ravening breakers smite, blow on blow. 

The bellowing, rock-bound shore. 



76 



Ah ! Give me peace and the calm again, 

That none but thou can give. 
Speak to me sweet! It is only then 

That life seems good to live. 

Kiss me again, dear one, and all 
Shall whisper of love and light; 

The voice of the tempest shall die and fall, 
And the sun dispel the night 

—Fort Snelling, 190 If. 



77 



ENVOI. 



Since thou hast come to teach me life to know, 
With all its wondrous worth of joy and pain, 
Couldst thou sell sorrow for a moment's gain, 

Since thou hast taught me, dear, to love thee so? 

Nay, taught me not, for Love from teaching 
turns — 
But, since I love thee and thou givest sweet 
Surcease of longing to my debt complete — 

Thou canst not. No! the thought my reason 
spurns. 

Swear thou no time or change for us shall be ; 
Within our hearts shall everlasting youth, 

Gazing, glad-eyed, unto the great eternity. 
Uphold and strengthen till the day of truth. 

So may we smile and, even with failing breath, 

Say "Love, thou conquerest, in life and death." 

—Fort Snelling, 1904. 
78 



IN MEMORY. 



Beside the great dark waters of the North, 
Within a sheltered mead about which spread 
Protecting arms of guardian forest kings, 
Encompassed round with everlasting walls 
That turn the too rough buffets of the storm ; 
Looking to eastward over tumbling waves 
That merge, leagues distant, with the boundless 

blue. 
Where white-winged sea-birds swiftly come and 

go, 
Mocking the distant sails of fishermen, 
An altar stands. 

Above it whisper softly summer winds 
That seem to linger with caressing touch 
Among the tresses of the balsam firs, 
As might a lover o'er his fingers pass 
The fragrant masses of his mistress' locks. 



7.9 



Around it, stretching to the setting sun, 
Is spread a carpet of the tenderest green. 
All set with blossom stars of white and red. 
To ease the weary feet of him who comes 
To worship here. 

No shaft of polished marble here is reared, 
Nor embellished bronze that honor does its gods ; 
But in the memory of the worshiper 
Who travels, day and night, unto the shrine, 
It stands as stand the rough and rugged rocks 
That gird the rim of this its island home. 
Of precious stone of golden summer days. 
Wherein are pressed more gems of sweet content 
Than dimly light the common span of life, 
I've builded it. 

The waters lie, a sunlit, level plain 
That melts, far distant, into yellow haze, 
With scarce a ripple on their azure deeps 
Where lie revealed the erstwhile hidden gems. 
Such for the mind at peace — for quiet dreams, 
Unravelling all the future and the past, 
When all shines clear unto far-seeing eyes. 
That I may rise again, resolved anew 
Upon the unfolding of the truth of life 
That's given me. 



80 



Yet many are the hours of stress and storm, 
When wild waves, answering to my throbbing 

heart. 
Beat in the semblance of a mighty pulse 
That rushes, passion driven, through the veins, 
From out the life founts of a sentient world. 
Beat on, mad waves, for I would hear your voice. 
Pent up, the raging, livid flame of thought 
Sears red the soul but, freed, leaps forth 
To fling its rage into the face of day, 
And perishes. 

Beyond the shore line runs a countless pack 
Of restless beasts that push forever on 
Toward the bare brown slope that tempts resolve 
To conquer and surmount its rocky crest. 
Headlong they rush, upreared, with massive form. 
Each firm intent to climb where others fall ; 
But, at their very height of power, a hidden snare 
Locks fast on flying feet and drags them down 
In shattered fury, with their work undone 
And noted not. 

Yet, nothing daunted, onward still they come, 
All striving for a place to lay their bones. 
As innumerable hosts of men, since time un- 
known. 



81 



Have struggled 'gainst the great invisible, 
And still press, heedless, in the face of death. 
What's written for them o'er the gates of hell? 
That dauntless courage needs no high reward, 
Or that relentless laws are set to bound 
Their efforts when they seek to rend the chain 
And leap too high? 

Enough I've watched and pondered over these- 
Since once again the sunlight, falling clear. 
Diffuses through the air a vaporous gold, 
I'll stretch myself upon the soft, sweet earth 
To drink contentment at its fountain head. 
Peace — here 'tis found in warmth and light ; 
No sound but whispers 'mid the swaying pines- 
Oh blest Nirvana, sought of ages gone — 
Oh Father Sun our fathers worshipped well. 
Be kind today. 

Upon the sunlit path my feet have trod 
A step draws near that I have known so well. 
Ah Love, is't you that finds me here alone? 
Can I hide longer from you why I've come. 
Or why I lie with arms clasped close about 
My altar's base — who is the god I've placed 
Thereon — whose feet I kiss in agony 



82 



Of sweet remembrance of the by-gone days? 
No word — your hand upon my face — no more — 
I've builded well. 

Yes, builded well; if any height there be 
That rises 'bove the chilling mists so far 
The warm sun kisses its cold face to warmth, 
And nurtures into life the seed there dropped, 
That else had perished in the gloom and dark. 
Let me not pass it by but build thereon 
And, of the tenuous threads of light that float 
Before my eyes, weave gently, on life's loom, 
A glorious web that for my faith may be 
An altar cloth. 

So, with full heart, I bow in reverent awe, 
As pilgrims of the East turn Mecca-ward, 
Kissing, in fervent prayer, the sacred stone 
That lives, replete with promise and with hope. 
Where else, what else can strike the answering 

chord. 
The complement of every varying mood, 
As can the orchestra of imagery. 
Foregathered in the service of a god, 
Sweeping through all its tones of melody 
With master hand? 



83 



Oh Love, oh Peace and Joy, and oh Despair! 
Oh Light of Kindness and Alysterious Gloom ! 
Oh Wildly-beating Heart and Gentle Calm ! 
Oh Failure and Bright Dream of Fortune's smile! 
How swiftly fill ye up Earth's little day, 
Until the falling of the final night 
Beyond which lies no man knows what. 
Until its coming let me tend my shrine, 
With gentle hands to help me keep alight 
The altar fires. 

— Presidio of San Francisco, 1905. 



8-'t 



A VISION. 



Flood of the yellow river, 
Floor of the boundless plain, 

Flame of the sun a'quiver 
Over the waving grain — 

Calls to the lagging ferry 
One that comes from the hill ; 

Answers the boatman weary — 
"Crosses with me who will." 

Why shine ye out of the darkness 
That only my eyes can see? 

Why call ye out of the silence 
That wraps and oppresses me? 

-Presidio of San Francisco, 1905. 



85 



GENESIS. 



Nursed in the cradles of valleys, 

Buried beneath the sea, 
Far in the midst of the desert, 

Wherever life may be; 
Waiting the eye of the reader, 

Lieth the eternal plan: 
Out of the heart of the mountain, 

Cometh the story of man. 

— Presidio of San Francisco, 1905. 



8H 



WHO LIVETH ALWAY. 



To John Hay, a friend to whom, in this 
life I was unknown. 



The fisher hath gone from his fishing, 
The beacon is dark on the hill ; 

The grain from the meadow is garnered, 
The song of the reaper is still. 

Oh ! ye that are bowed in your sorrow, 
From whose hearth hath faded the glow. 

Why wear ye the garments of mourning — 
The symbols of anguish and woe? 

The great soul we knew in our trouble, 
The great heart we knew in our pain. 

Was born but to prove its perfection ; 
Hath passed but to show us our gain. 



87 



Hath he died? Nay, now 'tis he liveth. 

Doth he sleep? Nay, he waketh anew, 
That spake with the voice of tlie many 

But thought with the grace of the few. 

There is no word that ever is wasted, 

And no work is ever in vain ; 
For at last, in the heart of another, 

It groweth to fruitage again. 

The spirit is not for our keeping. 
Too little we drew from its worth ; 

It hath passed from the bounds of a people, 
To illumine the nations of Earth. 

So look ye, all men of the Westerns; 

So hearken, ye men of the East; 
A soul hath been sent for your teaching, 

That scorneth nor greatest nor least. 

Learn ye of its gentle forbearance. 
Of the joy of its beauty and calm ; 

Bear not ye the arrows of malice. 
But rather the healing of balm. 



88 



So what though the fisher hath tarried? 

The light shall yet gleam on the hill ; 
Though the grain by the reaper be garnered, 

His song in our hearts singeth still. 

— Presidio of San Francisco, 1905. 



89 



THE REBORN. 



Far, in a land upon the borders of the earth, 
I wandered, dreaming, in the afternoon of life, 
Upon a plain that stretched around me, limitless, 
Before, behind, all naked to the questioning eye. 
Gone, long ago, were all the vales and streams 
That nurtured strength within the primal hordes 
That poured hence, dauntless, to the peopling of 

the world. 
About me lay the earth, parched, barren, desolate, 
On which the westering sun beat, pitiless, 
An orb of fire, rolled, thundering, in a hollow sky, 
Passed, and so left me, weary and athirst. 
And then fell darkness, like a sable wing 
Down-rushing through the still and heavy air. 
So, in the gray gloom of the shadowy night, 
I came, at last, upon the clear-cut lip 
Of a vast chasm that before me dropped. 
So sudden that my feet failed ere my eyes beheld, 
To awful, unknown depths, touching infinity. 



90 



On either hand it stretched, past knowing, and 

the brink 
Of its far shore was swallowed up in distance — 

lost. 

So stood I, gazing down and down, until my eyes 
Grew customed to the ghostly, shrouded light 
That wavered dimly from a few wan stars 
Into the depths before me and was lost in gloom. 
Light! Nay, 'twas ghost of light dwelt here. 
Among these cold, gray rocks, within this deep. 
Light perished, and what had been light 
Within the boundaries of the upper world, 
Had vanished, as all life must fail and die. 
Into this hell where all had ceased to be. 
Where all form vanished and even the rocky walls 
No longer stood outright and bold, 
Asserting purpose to withstand the elements, 
For here the elements were not, and, purpose 

gone, 
Nothing upheld a misty nothingness. 
Night was, but no darkness, and a rayless light 
Illumined but a grave of formless things. 
Into whose endless depths I, too, must sink — 
Was sinking, all unknowing, unto death, 
And this, to which my world had come — the end. 



91 



But, mid my ponderings, a lifted glance 

Caught, far away, a tint of rose, 

Where one bright, level sun-ray fell 

Athwart the plain and chasm, and caught 

A crown of hills and set it all aglow. 

So had I stood the whole night through, 

Though knew I not the hours had passed, 

The while the sun had circled through his course. 

And once again, with him, the day had come. 

It seemed not strange that I beheld again 

The wooded hills beyond the barrier gulf, 

The pearly mountains, fading into tender blue, 

For now beheld I that the gulf was passed — 

Was nothing. Lo ! what had seemed the end 

W^as but the wakening of life anew. 

— U. 8. A. Transport, Pacific Ocean, 1905. 



92 



RECOMPENSE. 



After the plowing, the sowing and toil, 
After the care of the fruitful soil, 
After the reaping, the dust and the heat, 
Comes the abundant harvest of wheat. 

After the storm and the icy blast 
Comes the day when the anchor's cast 
And the homing ships in the harbor ride, 
Safe from the buffets of wind and tide. 

After the weary and sordid strife. 
Crushing the beauty and grace of life, 
Remains the store of gems or gold. 
In default of beauty, to have and hold. 



93 



After the hunger and sickness of heart, 
When men look, cold, in the face of Art, 
His soul is left, in the artist's skill. 
For the future to ponder, awed and still. 

After the blood and the horror of war 
White horses draw the triumphal car 
Where rides the victor, crowned for a day, 
Crowned with the deathless leaves of bay. 

After the pain of the years away. 
After the longing no voice could stay. 
Comes the reward of a life anew — 
After the voyage, you, love — 
After the voyage, you. 

■U. 8. A. Transport, Pacific Ocean, 1906. 



94 



PRISONER OF WAR. 



I wonder why ever I care 

If you smile or you frown upon me; 
I am caught in a net of brown hair, 

With never a wish to be free. 

I wonder what made me your prize 
In this queer little warfare of chance, 

Where I've struck to a pair of brown eyes 
And surrendered at sight of their glance.. 

I know that I ought to be tried; 

My weapons all failed in the clash, 
And yet what shall solace my pride — 

Disarmed at the fall of a lash? 



9S 



But, now Vm a captive secure, 
I have rights you are bound to respect; 

Be pleased, oh my captor demure, 
To remember the laws are correct. 

They permit of no cruel restraint 
When there's never attempt to rebel ; 

For the lack of bare food I am faint. 
And I thirst, though in sig'ht of the well. 

-U. S. A. Transport, Pacific Ocean, 1906. 



96 



DIRI. 



Our ship's sailing farther away. 
The weather is colder today, 
And this is no place for the piping of dreams 
That fill one's cabeza in the Philippines; 
But I'm dreaming of old Dumaloong, 
Where the Gandara runs with a song — 
Sometimes I think, if the K. O. could see, 
'Twould be St. Elizabeth's pronto for me. 

Diri, aco, warai naquita Pulajan, 
Pula mabutlao aco man ; 
Diri, aco, cuni maoli warai awai, 
Ah diri. 



97 



up here it's so cold and so gray, 

With Lulai I'd willingly stay 

To the end of my tour — for two years and a day — 

If only she'd learn something further to say 

Than that limitless mess of Visay — 

"Ah diri," "ambut" and "warai"— 

Till my head's in a whirl with the sound of her 

voice, 
And still there's no better — not one better choice. 

Diri, aco, warai naquita Pulajan, 
Pula mabutlao aco man; 
Diri, aco, cuni maoli warai awai, 
Ah diri. 

— U. 8. A. Transport, Pacific Ocean, 1906. 



98 



ILE ROYALE. 



By Grand Marais and Thunder Head 

The forest pathways lay, 
Where once the spirit voices led 

Toward eastward breaking day. 
Oh, ghostly notes of piping Pan! 

How clear the far-heard call 
That echoes yet about his land — 

The rocks of He Royale. 

Behind, the heat and strife and toil 

That fill the throbbing street— 
The golden serpent in whose coil 

Are snared too willing feet. 
Before, the wonder-reaching way, 

By moss-grown rock and tree, 
The sky aflame with rainbow play, 

The north-wind calling me. 



99 



Magnolias of the southern strands, 

Wild flowers of the plain, 
Fair lilies of the island sands, 

In other's dreams remain ; 
But we who love the farther north 

Roam, restless, in our search. 
Till faint around us shimmer forth 

The spectral trees of birch. 

Spruce and fir and alder bough. 

Starred with iris through, 
All I see about me now, 

Wet with morning dew — 
Pearly mist and sun alift 

O'er our harbor gate, 
As the balsam scent, adrift. 

Glorifies my mate. 

Little white-walled home of mine 

One too brief moon through, 
Shall I once more see it shine 

'Gainst the waters blue? 
Brother of the gods, content, 

I dwelt in peace serene — 
The gods those happy days have sent 

Will give them back again. 



100 



By Grand Marais and Thunder Head 

The forest pathways lay, 
Where once the spirit voices led 

Toward eastward breaking day. 
Oh, ghostly notes of piping Pan ! 

How clear the far-heard call 
That echoes yet about his land — • 

The rocks of He Royale. 

-Fort Logan, 1906. 



101 



A TAG'S GUITAR. 



Poor, silent thing, that once could speak 
A crude half-music to a hill-man's ears ! 

How ill it looks amid these brighter scenes, 
Rough-formed, ungraceful as it now appears. 

Yet scorn it not, I pray ; Olympic choice 
Not often seeks the hand of princely birth 

To wield the sceptre of its potent rule 

And sway, with melody, the hosts of Earth. 

Rude as it is, yet it has served to voice 

The dim-felt longing of some simple hearts ; 

Give place, oh Goddess, at your altar's shrine, 
To me, for love's sake, and to this for art's. 

— Fort Logan, 1906. 



102 



SNOW ON THE MOUNTAINS. 



The old Norse, at the recession of the sun in the 
winter season, feared it might so continue to recede and 
never return. They, therefore, believed it necessary to 
offer, at midwinter, a human sacrifice, of a victim 
previously selected, to secure the sun's return and in- 
sure a succeeding harvest season. 

Snow on the mountains, where the solemn pines 
Stand watch and ward about the giant's head, 

Sheeting and shrouding, 'neath its swirling lines, 
The rough, scarred features of the silent dead. 

Wind in the caverns that, from rocky throats, 
Call, trumpet voiced, a mournful dirge. 

Chills the warm heart with its despairing notes 
And menace of the message that they urge. 



lOS 



What words are they that rouse such trembling 
fears, 

That dull thine eyes and falter in thy breath? 
These — the dire message of the futile years — 

"Beware thy life, for in its midst is death !" 

Soul of a clouded age, thy vision must 

Look in the windows of thine own past life, 

Seek truth from out the ages' grave of dust, 
Or with fair hope forever be at strife. 

Returns the sun again, and Earth shall wake 

Without a cruel sacrifice of blood 
Poured from the victims that thy altars take, 

Sinking their vain lives in a darkening flood. 

Snow on the mountains — for the Earth's at rest. 
Her power renewing for a fruitage rife. 

Winds from the caverns cry a message blest — 
''Death's but a gateway in the garden, life." 

—Fort Douglas, 1907. 



10k 



FROM PRISON WALLS. 



"And, having been set free, they returned to their 
own company." — Talmud. 

The snows are white on Lebanon, 
Where, on its shoulders, heaven high, 

The Pharos head of Lebanon 

Sends forth its gleam to sea and sky. 

Afar, across the shifting sands, 

I hear the tinkling camel bell. 
Where, lone, the lofty palm tree stands 

Beside the green girt desert well : 

And floods with warmth the dreary, cold. 
Dark dungeon where, perforce, I lie, 

The droning sound of stories told 
By traders in the town's serai. 



105 



I've kept the faith and fought the fight 
That Thou hast trusted to me, Lord; 

These, knowing not Thy vengeful might, 
Turn deaf ears to Thy spoken word. 

They do but mock, as who decries 

Thy mercy and Thine equity; 
From all their thousand altars flies 

The smoke of their iniquity. 

Where'er Thy sign before me burns 
I've hearkened to Thy least command ; 

But, Lord, my heart, in longing, yearns 
Toward the people of my land. 

When Rome hath loosed her eagles' wings 
And heralded her law's decree. 

How little worth, Judea's stings. 
From lawful chains to set her free. 

Yea, woven though they be of reed. 
We trample in the chariot's track, 

Content with wilful wish for deed. 
Enslaved by the threatened rack. 



106 



My feet have trod the burning stones, 

In duty rendered to the law ; 
Yet, failing curses, only moans. 

Unto my lips its lashes draw. 

But oh ! once more may I behold 
The green clad slopes of Lebanon, 

With heart as glad as were, of old. 
The captives back from Babylon. 

And oh ! to walk the hills again. 

As once we trod them, 'neath the blue, 

Without the shame imposed of men, 
Our hearts as pure as we were true. 

Oh God ! be mindful of me now, 
Call Thou my duty's labor done; 

For love hath swallowed up my vow, 
As dew beneath the Syrian sun. 

—Fort Logan, 1908. 



107 



THE SOUL OF OUR SAMURAI. 



The swords that once in battle rang, 
And smote their way to glory, 

Now hang, in silence, on our walls, 
Scarce known to song or story. 

The patriot hands that wielded them 
Have long to clay been turning, 

But on our hearts their sturdy strength 
Built fires that yet are burning. 

The flag that once our columns led 
Is now but rags and tatters, 

And, one by one, its silken threads, 
In formless dust it scatters. 



108 



The men that bore it, long ago, 
Beneath the sod are sleeping, 

But yet they live, in us again ; 
Our lives are in their keeping. 

Oh ! guard ye well what they have won, 

Their prizes, nobly given ; 
Their knightly souls still bid us on, 

To strive as they have striven. 

—Fort Logan, 1909 



109 



WHEN MY LADY COMES. 



The day My Lady went away, 

Ah me ! the day was drear. 
The pearly blooms of yester morn 

Were fallen, dead and sere; 
Across the erstwhile azure sky, 

In close-ranked troops of dun. 
Swept clouds, upon the bitter wind, 

To drown the setting sun. 
The birds have all forgot their songs 

Since they were hushed that day; 
The woodland paths are silent since 

My Lady went away. 



110 



But when My Lady comes again 

The day shall be so bright! 
In every bower a flame-tipped flower 

Shall set its torch alight. 
The wooded deeps shall ring with song, 

And all the hills around 
Shall smile beneath the morning sun, 

With jewels newly crowned. 
Yet even these are scarce enough 

To bid her welcome when 
The day shall dawn on which I know 

My Lady comes again. 

My Lady, since you went away, 

Lo! All the days are drear. 
What need of you have strangers now. 

That I must miss your cheer? 
The clouds are gold when you are by — 

All rose and golden then — 
So haste the dawning of the day 

When you shall come again. 

-Fort Bayard, 1909. 



Ill 



THE TRIUMVIRS. 



(Dorothy, Helen and Carmen.) 



I often have wondered what magic can be 
Involved with the mystical numeral three ; 
What power exists to lend it such strength, 
So lacking it seems in both numbers and length. 

When dealing with Wise Men none need hesitate 
To cast them in threes for all questions of state. 
Of this you may doubt, but you know, at the least. 
Of the three who, in one, came up out of the East ; 

And that trio of Gotham, of whom we are told 
That once o'er the ocean they merrily bowled ; 
What their fate was I never could tell, I am sure, 
But it matters but little — their fame is secure. 



112 



There are rulers of nations in trays by the score ; 
If you know not their stories you've something in 

store, 
For you need not to track through the maze of 

romance 
The Triumvirs of Rome and the Consuls of 

France. 

In the forest of fiction forthwith there appears 
The trail of Three Guardsmen and Three Mus- 
keteers ; 
And deeper within its recesses there runs 
The path of Three Queens and of even Three 
Nuns. 

So on infinitum, there's truly no end 
Of proof such as instances everywhere lend; 
And surely, by now, you will readily see 
What power is held by the charmed number three. 

But the Consuls of France or Triumvirs of Rome 
Had never such power as rules in my home ; 
Three Princesses, precious as rubies and pearls. 
Hold court in my realm — my three little girls. 

—Fort Bayard, 1909. 

lis 



ROSE LEAVES. 

A rose that leaned above the stream 

Her petals slowly cast 
Upon its bosom, where their gleam 

Had faded ere they passed. 

But in the light of summer days 
The rose may bloom again, 

And, through the gold, her ruddy blaze 
Make glad the hearts of men. 

I watch the dropping hours glide 

Into a silent sea. 
Whence ne'er, by wind nor wave nor tide, 

May they return to me. 

— Fort Bayard, 1910. 

m 



IN EXTREMIS. 



Under thy garden wall this morning lay 
A wounded bird that struggled in essay 

To rise, with shattered pinions, once again 
Upon the wind, as still his kindred may. 

Ah ! he hath ever deemed the world so fair, 
And life so sweet it well were worth the care 

That Earth imposes on each fragile form 
Until 'tis taken in the Hunter's snare. 

What happy hours he sang upon the bough 
That swings above thy window ledge, and now 

The little voice of joy is hushed, at last, 
Until — if He a future shall allow. 



115 



The numbered days are few, but each is long, 
Till Azrael comes; and can it, then, be wrong 

To wish them fewer? O Friend, 
Shalt Thou not love the singer for his song? 

—Fort Bayard, 1910. 



116 



MY LASSIE. 



'Tis true I love a lassie, 

A bonnie, bonnie lass; 
'Tis na' sae muckle wonder 

The thing ha' com'd to pass: 
Mayhap 'tis for the voice o' her, 

Mayhap 'tis for her smile — 
'Twad lichten a' the v^eary steps 

O' mony a weary mile. 

Mayhap 'tis for her creamy cheek. 

Mayhap her nut-broon hair, 
Wi' just atop a glint o' gold 

That is my tongue's despair; 
But most o' a', I think's, her een, 

O' deepest, velvet broon. 
That's like a kiss an' she but smile — 

But spare me frae her froon. 



m 



An' yet na' ane nor a' o' these, 

I canna' help but see, 
Makes her perfection — I admit 

'Tis just that she is she. 
A'weel, a'weel, I dinna ken 

Howe'er it com'd to pass; 
I only ken I dearly love 

My bonnie, bonnie lass. 

— Fort Bayard, 1910. 



118 



SANCTUARY. 



There is a temple 'mid the desert sands 

Where come no other than men's naked souls 
That once have sought to touch forbitten goals; 

And for their shelter in the night it stands. 

Within the circuit of its walls there reign 
The calm and silence of infinite years, 
Upon whose dust fall unaccounted tears 

Draw from their deeps by never ceasing pain. 

A thousand altars there stand mute and dumb — 
Whereon dead hopes are reverently lain, 
With Love, that in the suppliant's arms is 
slain — 

That all may weep and go ere morning come. 

—Fort Bayard, 1910. 

119 



THE KNEELING NUN. 



Some seven miles east of Bayard, but in full view 
from that place, is a mass of rock having the semblance 
of a woman kneeling before an altar. It is called "The 
Kneeling Nun," and among the Spanish speaking people 
of the country legend asserts that a nun whom love had 
made recreant to her vows was there changed into stone 
and condemned forever to kneel before the high altar 
in prayer for forgiveness for her sin. 



Blue canopied, her lofty altar stands, 
O'erlooking, from its heights, a stricken vale 
Wherein a shifting band of spectres pale 

Pass helpless, stretching upward empty hands. 

Before it, in an agony of prayer, 
She kneels, from sun to sun, from age to age ; 
Hath any book of life here turned a page 

Since she hath knelt in bitter penance there? 



120 



O thou ensymbolled Mother of our race, 
About whose knees, as children, still we cling, 
About whose neck our feeble arms we fling, 

A'hunger for the radiance of thy face; 

Teach thou the love that we, thy children, crave, 
And banish malice from thy temple gate ; 
O gentle Mother, here may'st thou create 

A soul to lose, a human heart to save. 

—Fort Bayard, 1910. 



121 



A PERSIAN GARDEN. 



I may never make the voyage I have planned 
from year to year, 
To explore the distant wonders of the world ; 
For my ship's a feeble sailer since the storms 

have rent her sails, 
And she's forced to lie in harbor, seeking safety 
from the gales, 
With her tattered suit of canvas closely furled. 

I may never light a camp-fire on the shores of 
Issig Kul ; 
I may never see the walls of Samarkand, 
Where the passing, mortal pageant of the Con- 
queror is laid 
In its place of final resting, underneath the prec- 
ious jade, 
In the desert circled, cloud enveloped land. 



122 



I may never win to Shiraz, lying 'neath its azure 
dome, 
All bedecked about with Iran's queenly rose; 
I may never tread the garden of the singer Hafiz' 

grave, 
There to offer him my homage for the music that 
he gave. 
With the incense of the evening, at its close. 

But about me I've a garden, where the wonders 
all may come; 
I may see their mystic beauties, one by one. 
Gather round me, pearled and silken, in an iris 

sprinkled glade, 
While above, the plane and cypress rear their 
plumed heads to shade 
All my visions from the splendor of the sun. 

—Fort Bayard, 1910. 



123 



RETOUR. 



For us hath come this day of truth, dear mate, 
To prove the skill of Love to spin a thread. 
That, though the hands that held the flax be 
dead, 

May yet prevail against the shears of Fate. 

Who knoweth, 'mid his life's uncertainty. 
If there existeth even a living soul 
That gropeth through the aeons to its goal. 

Or if love triumpth o'er mortality? 

Be ours the right of chosen martyrdom 
To hold aloft the never failing light, 

A guide to them that after us shall come 

The long vv^ay through the portals of the night, 

Until their very myriad trials' sum 

Bursts, in refulgent dawn, upon their sight. 

— Fort Bayard, 1910. 

m 



WEEK'S END. 



Come fill a bowl for Saturday, our work is all but 

done ; 
Another one for Monday morn, our work is just 

begun : 
In sooth I know not any day, could prove to be 

so dull, 
That I might wish to run away and leave the 

wine-cup full. 
I have a pleasant company, and eke my sweet- 
heart's arms; 
Give o'er, ye Old Mortality, your grisly old 

alarms — 
Give o'er, ye Old Mortality, your grisly old 

alarms. 

The Verger is a jolly man, I make no word o' 

doubt ; 
The Parson is, of all his clan, the most uncheer- 

ful lout: 



125 



He is so wise and full of saws on saving of my 
soul; 

My foolish body, with its flaws, I needs must 
now keep whole. 

I have a pleasant company, and eke my sweet- 
heart's arms; 

Give o'er, ye Old Mortality, your grisly old 
alarms — 

Give o'er, ye Old Mortality, your grisly old 
alarms. 

If I have but a crumb of bread, a drop to wash it 

down, 
I'll give the Lord my thanks instead of a clinking 

golden crown ; 
For gold can buy no saving grace, nor prayers 

that gold can hire; 
If I may win the final race, God-speed is heart's 

desire. 
I have a pleasant company, and eke my sweet- 
heart's arms; 
Give o'er, ye Old Mortality, your grisly old 

alarms — 
Give o'er, ye Old Mortality, your grisly old 

alarms. 

—Fort Bayard, 1910. 
126 



THE ROCK-CRUSHER. 



(An Example of "The New Poetry.") 



Look at her yonder where she sits 

Enthroned upon a pedestal of massive iron, 

Uplifted high above the crowd of lesser folk 

That throng about her feet and hum and growl, 

And clash their pulleys and their iron teeth 

All through the dusty days and nights — 

She rules o'er all of these. 

The builder placed her there, 

In this, her high estate. 

That rattling, clanking steel cars 

Might run beneath her pulsing throat 

And carry forth MacAdam stone, 

When she has pleased to feed them full, 

To make smooth highways for a million feet. 



121 



But she makes high demands and must be fed 

With constancy and care, else she rebels 

And turns from usefulness — 

She is a woman. If you doubt the word, 

Follow with patience, if you can, 

My devious story of her charming ways. 

Forthwith to be convinced. 

She knows, unto the full, her power, the jade. 
And is imperious and petulant, as most queens 

are. 
If she be crossed, in any way, in her sweet will. 
She has, of truth, a wondrous pair of jaws, 
Xanthippe surely must have envied if 
She e'er had thought the future age could build 
Such tirelessness from blocks of iron and steel. 

And lo ! crowned with that crown of yellow dust, 
She is a queen indeed — 
A shop-girl Venus on her counter-stool, 
Chewing, undaunted, on, from morn to night, 
And I dare swear, with all of truthfulness, 
From night to morn, her tolu gum. 
And she's capricious, like another maid ; 
How often, when some heart of flint 
Has stuck between her delicate teeth 



128 



And made her cry out with her violent pain, 
I have, in kindness, thrust a trusting hand 
Between her helpless, quivering jaws. 
To have them close upon me with a snap, 
And tear the skin from half my palm. 
I lost a finger that way once — 
But 'twas her charming woman's way. 
I am enamored, I confess — 
I love her for it. 

Last night while I was busily engaged 

In oiling up some other small machine, 

The place was sudden filled with shrieks and 

groans 
And flying sparks, that brought me to her side. 
Knowing the need was dire, and that my hand 
Was sacrifice to her petulant destiny. 
She'd taken a stone would not permit her jaws to 

close — 
Shortly, had bit off more than she could chew. 
A man would quick have grown red in the face, 
And turned his head, and quietly have essayed 
To spit out, thus, behind his shielding hand. 
What he had choked upon by his default. 



129 



No meek man's blushes for this tyrant queen : 
With wide-stretched jaws she shrieked and 

screamed, 
And fell into demoniac fits of wild hysteria. 
She slipped her belts and cried forth threats 
To rack the engine to a shapeless mass 
Of inert steel and iron and brass — 
To let fly all restraint and lay the shed 
In ruins and in dust from end to end. 
I had to cut off all the power 
And bring the whole works to a sudden stop, 
And get a monkey-wrench and take out all the 

bolts 
That held her parts together, and to pry 
Those clamping jaws apart with iron bars, 
Ere she'd release the morsel that she did not 

want. 

With but a paint-brush and some pots of paint. 

And one of hard enamel, I could wonders work 

To cause beholders all to stand amazed; 

I'd give to her a rose-bud mouth, 

With lips a very Cupid's bow. 

'Tis true it is a trifle wide and gaping now. 

But with perspective's tricksy aid, 

And proper parts laid on of white and red. 



ISO 



I'd make it, even in size, seem but a bud. 
And when she parts those lips, in merry mood. 
As daintily as any maiden at a matinee, 
Munching on Huyler's chocolates and bonbons, 
She'd show quick glimpses of her pearly teeth 
That seem too dainty for a commoner task. 
All these I'd set above an alabaster throat. 
And with but little modeling I'd give 
To her two eyes of such cerulean hue. 
As should befit her other features well, 
And crown all with a wealth of golden hair. 
I'd do it, too, if 'twere not for that villain Garst, 
The quarry boss, and all his jeering crew. 
No season's debutante should e'er be fitted out 
With such a wealth of ravishing charms. 
As I'd give her — but hold! 
They'd say I raved — I must restrain myself. 

—Fort Bayard, 1910. 



131 



QUEERIES. 



If all the sea were printer's ink 
And all the earth were dough, 

We still might live on bread and cake- 
Where would you bake it though? 

If all the earth were made of cake 

And all the sea were ink, 
What could a thirsty fellow do 

If he should want a drink? 

If all the earth were made of cake 

And all the sea were ink, 
What could a thirsty fellow do 

But scratch his head and think. 



152 



Now if the earth were sugar-loaf 
And all the sea were milk, 

We'd build a cart of butter-scotch, 
With harness made of silk. 

Then with a lot of maple cream. 
And some of bread and cheese, 

We'd gallop down the Hampton Roads 
Behind a team of fleas. 

^San Antonio, 1910. 



133 



WHITE MAGIC. 



Bright eyes, brown eyes, 

Eyes I love so well, 
Have you ever sought to hide 

Stories that you tell? 
You have never needed words, 

They are written fair 
In the astrologic signs 

That are blazoned there. 
Clear eyes, dear eyes, 

You have spoken well ; 
All about my heart's enmeshed 

With your witch's spell. 



— Sow, Antonio, 1910. 



m 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 



Afar I heard his music through the night, 
And passing strange indeed it seemed to hear 
The song that fell so gaily on my ear, 

While darkness hid the singer from my sight. 

Yet I have lost no single note of joy 
That from his pulsing throat in rapture sprang ; 
The Emperor's bell that of a spirit rang, 

Was molded of a spirit — not alloy. 

So may I hear the hearts that love me speak 
Across the trackless desert of the sea 
Whose rolling mists have so enshrouded me 

That through them I can now no longer seek. 



135 



So let me hear thee sing our love, ere slips 
Our day from off the ever spinning Wheel; 
Ere Death shall set upon my ears his seal, 

Or Silence lay her finger on thy lips. 



— San Antonio, 1911. 



1S6 



OLD LAMPS FOR NEW. 



"Rests she in the Justice of Osiris." 

Here, till the resurrection morn to sleep, 
They've left thee. Princess, by the River Nile, 
Serene that over Heaven and Earth the while. 

The Lord Osiris should his sceptre keep. 

But where, O Princess, is Osiris now; 
His worship vanished in the mists of time, 
His very name a memory sublime, 

His temples dust where thou wert wont to bow? 

What thronging hosts since then have gone 
their way, 
Envestured with the Buddha's lotus calm, 
Or in the market-place borne cross and palm. 

Or proudly battled for the Muslim sway ! 



iS7 



Hath, then, thy rest aught less of peace than 
these? 
Is justice any less thy Lord's to give? 
Each day we pray beyond the veil to live — 

Who sitteth there enthroned to judge our pleas? 

For me, I can but think our gods are one, 
And souls' salvation is not bartered thus 
For faith in word or name — a wisp of dust 

Blown for a moment 'thwart the morning sun. 

— San Antonio, 1911. 



138 



When the last of the grain lies low, 
When the harvest is gathered in, 

What holds for us weal or woe? 
What stirs us to prayer or sin? 

What brighter heaven is here? 

What bitterer hell our lot? 
That the sweet "I love thee, dear"? 

Than the dread ''I love thee not"? 



-Sidi Hammo. 



May all the mercy of God belong 
To Sidi Hammo, who made this song. 



139 



^Y 29 1911 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



«»Y 29 19" 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

020 994 408 A 



